


One More Here We Go Again

by Jmeelee



Series: SterekBingo 2019 [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Twelve Dancing Princesses Fusion, Animagus, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Curses, Dancing, Fae & Fairies, Fairies, M/M, Masks, Riddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-03-29 21:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19028116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: “Okay.”  Stiles spins around slowly, arms crossed, leveling an accusatory gaze at each mask-covered witch and wizard. “Which one of you assholes pissed off the fairies?”  Everyone in the room points to Derek.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Sterek Bingo 2019 Themes: Masquerade, Fairies, Other Realms
> 
> This is a Harry Potter AU crossed with the fairy tale, The Twelve Dancing Princesses, and based off some drabbles I’ve posted over the past year. I only anticipate this fic being 2 chapters, and I will add the drabbles (which take place before and after this story) at the end.

The hazel eyes peering down at him in the weak light are a shade lighter than the thick emerald-green canopy hanging over his bed.  Stiles blinks away his dreams. “How’d you get into the boys’ dormitory, Lydia?” His voice rasps as it travels out of his dry throat into the cool dungeon air, but Scott and the other boys won’t hear him over the  _ Muffliato _ Lydia cast.

 

She shrugs.  “What? Like it’s hard?”  The tip of her Applewood wand glows white, casting deep shadows along her body as she perches on the edge of his mattress.  He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have about a million fantasies that opened just like this, but as soon as she says, “Stiles, something’s wrong with Derek and his friends, and you need to come help,” he knows this ending won’t be as happy as he’s imagined.

 

“No,” he says, studiously ignoring the heart beating double-time behind his ribs at the mention of his ex-childhood friend.  He turns away, face-planting into the cool side of his pillow. He raises his head a fraction of an inch. “Did he...” He’s a masochist, because he already knows the answer, but the question is tumbling out of his mouth anyway. “Did he ask for  _ my _ help?  Me, specifically?”   

 

Manicured nails trace soft, soothing lines up and down his back.  That’s a no, then. “If it were you in trouble, you’d cut off your nose to spite your face, rather than ask him for anything.  And Derek’s just as much of an idiot as you are. You’re perfect for each other.”

 

He huffs.  “Why should I help those jerks?  Why should you?”

 

“Because, you don’t just stop loving people.”  

 

Stiles grumbles in response. “Don’t love him.”

“Hmmm, sure you don’t.  Anyway, I’ve already talked to my grandmother, and she said we needed to do this together.”  

 

He stiffens under her calming touch.   _ Aw, shit.  _  This really is bad.  He rolls over, already whining. “I can’t believe you did a seance without me.”  He shuffles over a few inches, holds up the corner of his comforter. He’s fresh off seven hours of sleep, but he’s never felt more exhausted.  “Just... ten more minutes?”

 

She snuggles down next to him, pats the top of his head. “I tried to keep you out of it, if I could.”  She’s the brightest witch in their year, so when she says it, he believes her. 

 

Lake water washes against the dungeon windows. He sighs.  “Here we go again.”

 

“Look on the bright side, Stiles.  We take our N.E.W.T. exams in two months, and then it’s our graduation ceremony.  This should be the  _ last _ time.”

 

_ One more ‘here we go again _ .’  Somehow, the thought doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

———

They roll into the Ravenclaw common room— _ What gets broken without being held?  A promise. DUH— _ sack of treacle tarts pilfered from the kitchen in hand.  Stiles should be mentally prepared for what he sees, but he isn’t.

  
  


“Okay.”  Stiles spins around slowly, arms crossed, leveling an accusatory gaze at each mask-covered witch and wizard. “Which one of you assholes pissed off the fairies?”  Everyone in the room points to Derek.

 

Derek throws up his hands.  “It wasn’t my fault!”

 

“It was kind of your fault,” Isaac, in a winter-white wolf mask, says.  He hooks a finger into the bag of pastries, a stray blond curl falling across his covered forehead.  

 

Stiles shoos him away, receiving a low, menacing growl for his trouble.  “Scram, mongrel. No treats for you.”

 

“I thought you were supposed to be one of the most powerful wizards this place has seen in ages.” Erica encompasses the whole of Hogwarts with her broad, magnanimous hand wave. She manages to broadcast utter disdain, despite the golden wolf concealing the top half of her face. “The best you can do is dog jokes?”

 

“You want to hear a joke, Reyes?” Stiles sneers, clenching the fabric of his bag so hard the seam tears. “You’re a b—“

 

“Enough!” Five pairs of eyes snap to Lydia.  “We are here to  _ help _ .”  She pointedly glares at Stiles.  “So everyone, pull your heads out of your asses and put aside your differences.  You can go back to hating each other and pretending the other doesn’t exist,  _ after _ we talk to the fairies and get this curse removed.”  She watches Stiles and Derek lock eyes, both quickly glancing away.  “Or you kiss and make up. I do not care.” She shakes her head. “Just, for now,  _ stop _ .”

 

“Why is yours… different?”  Stiles’ voice comes out a hair too soft for his liking.  Derek glances at him through the holes in the simple black wolf mask.  The rest of the pack wear ornate metal wolf faces covered in swirls and divots, but Derek’s is smooth, edged down the snout in vibrant blood-red.  

 

Derek shoves his balled fists into his trouser pockets. “I may have stepped through the rift first,” he painstakingly admits.

 

“Ah.” Stiles’ smile is small and sad.  “So it is kind of your fault.”

 

“Told you,” Isaac hisses.

 

“Does it really matter whose fault it is?”  Boyd steps forward, tugging at the silver wolf plastered to his face.  Stiles has always been vocal about his disapproval of Derek’s new group of Animagi friends—it’s what led to their falling out, after years of close friendship—but he’s never had a problem with Vernon Boyd.  Isaac and Erica are swagger and bluster, cutting and cruel, but Boyd is soft words and strong actions.

 

“No.”  Stiles tosses Isaac the tarts and moves toward Boyd, grasping his chin in one hand and tilting his head to and fro, running a finger along the edge of the cold silver where it’s fused to his dark skin.  “They never come off?” Stiles asks.

 

“Never,” Derek answers. He’s moved closer on silent feet while Stiles inspects the fairies’ handiwork.  “They stay on all day, and all night. We can’t transform when they’re attached to us, and we can’t take them off. Hence why we haven’t been to any lessons in almost a week.  Despite her soft spot for other Animagi, Headmistress McGonagall will start making inquiries soon.”

 

“They force us to dance,” Erica says.  “Every night, we have to return, and dance in masquerade balls.  It’s what the masks are for.”

 

So,” Stiles broaches, the words echoing off the wide, arched windows.  “I’m pretty sure avoiding fairies at all costs is like, a pretty big lesson in both Defense against the Dark Arts and History of Magic.  How’d a bunch of seventh years manage to get cursed?”

 

Derek’s shoulders hunch up around his ears, and he toes at a twinkling star on the midnight-blue carpet to avoid Stiles’ gaze. “When you’re an Amigus, your senses are heightened, to match the animal you transform into.  We were out for a run together after dinner last week, and I smelled something. It was like…” Derek shakes his head. “It was so  _ powerful _ , it completely overtook my senses.  I followed it, and eventually, it led us to  _ him _ .”

 

“What did it smell like?” 

 

“Vanilla and pine,” Derek answers.

 

Boyd, Erica and Isaac all answer at the same time, their words blending together in Stiles’ overactive brain. 

 

“Cotton candy.”

 

“The waiting room at Saint Mungo’s.”

 

“Cologne.”

 

Lydia holds up a hand.  “Wait. You all smelled something different?”

 

Derek nods.  “We all  _ saw _ something different, too, at least at first.”

 

“I swear I saw the back of a little girl’s head,” Boyd shares, blinking hard. “I was trying to catch up to her, before she got lost.”

 

“I saw a Healer,” Erica supplies, shifting minutely in her high-backed chair.  

 

“I thought it was my brother,” Isaac quietly says, “but that’s not possible. He drowned when I was younger.”

 

“Who did you see?” Stiles asks when Derek remains stubbornly silent.

 

Derek‘s eyes jump from the over-full bookcases to the statue of Ravens Ravenclaw to the domed ceiling.  “I didn’t recognize the person.”

 

Stiles knows Derek’s handsome face like the back of his own hand, and that scowl means he’s not being honest, but Stiles chooses to let it go.  For now. “Fairies are tricky. Did any try to bargain with you?”

 

Derek sighs. “The longer we looked at it, the clearer he became.  What we thought was a child, or a healer, or family, was actually a man, a  _ King _ . He knew my name, and whispered a riddle in my ear. If I answer correctly, we’ll be set free.”

 

Stiles gapes at Derek.  “You’re a Ravenclaw! Riddles are your  _ thing _ ! What is it?”

 

Derek shakes his pretty head.  “I can’t repeat it aloud. Can’t write it down, either; trust me, I’ve tried.  He asks for the answer just before dawn, when the ball is ending. If I don’t answer correctly, we have to come back the next night.”

 

Stiles runs a shaky hand over his tired face. “Okay.  What’s our next step?”

 

“We’ll follow them,” Lydia says, reaching toward Isaac and pulling an invisibility cloak out of the bag they brought with them.  

 

Isaac, pastry crumbs falling from his mouth, peers into the sack.  “What other goodies do you keep in here? Are there any chocolate frogs?”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “ _ Where _ are we following you, exactly?” 

 

“The Forbidden Forest,” Derek answers. Below the black wolf face his full lips press into a thin, hard line. “And then, into the fairy realm.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erica takes one step closer, a pine cone splintering under her foot, chin jutted high and feet planted wide. “When we all started to spend more time together, I asked Derek why he hung around with you; you were so self-involved. Do you want to know what he said?”
> 
> “Not really, but I’m guessing you’re going to tell me anyway.” All around them, the cacophony of the forest falls silent; no buzzing insects, no hooting owls or the flutter of unseen wings, no foraging of animals in the detritus. The eerie silence lends itself to Erica’s ominous admission. 
> 
> “He told me, _Stiles is the most loyal friend in the world._ ”
> 
> Stiles stares at Derek’s back, growing further away with each heartbeat. His fingers itch for his wand, for the orange and purple ropes of a _Carpe Retractum_ , something to force the distance between them to close. “It was a mistake.” The whispered confession loosens something in his chest. “I’ve missed him every day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooooooooo I lied. This is going to be 3 chapters, not 2.

As soon as the sun kisses the shore of the Black Lake, Derek and his pack simultaneously rise from their seats around the common room, heads cocked in a distinctly lupine way, bodies answering a supernatural call Stiles and Lydia can not hear.

 

“I’d give anything to shift again,” Erica whines. Her body screams _run_ : balled fists, hunched shoulders, muscles taut.

 

“It’s alright,” Boyd consoles. He reaches out, plants a huge hand on the back of her neck, blunt fingertips rubbing gentle circles into the fine blonde hairs at her nape. Isaac sways closer to her, brushing her sweater-clad shoulder with his own. Derek places one hand on Isaac’s forearm, below the rolled-up sleeve of his white button-down, and the other hand on Boyd’s broad back, completing the circle. Erica closes her eyes, whole body relaxing with a soft exhale. Everything, from their silent, comforting gestures to Boyd’s tender tone, broadcasts their connection, the bonds of devotion and friendship between them. Jealousy rears its monstrous head, spitting fire and scraping talons along the inside of Stiles’ rib cage, hoarding every affectionate gesture. _You used to be that close to Derek; you should have Derek’s trust and love._

 

He buries the feelings and memories unearthed by the intimate scene, and falls back on his standard, reliable line of defense: being a sarcastic asshole. Stiles leans into Lydia’s personal space and mock whispers out of the side of his mouth, “That was kind of creepy.”

 

Lydia smacks him in the chest, hard, without sparing him a cursory glance.

 

Derek drops both hands from Isaac and Boyd like they’re on fire, and crosses his arms over his chest, directing angry eyebrow at Stiles. “You always knew how to ruin a moment, Stiles. Glad to find nothing has changed.” Derek is a sarcastic asshole, too, a trait Stiles likes to imagine he is at least partly responsible for. Derek stalks to the common room door, throwing it open for his friends to pass through. “Everyone knows the plan?” Five heads nod. “Good. It’s time to go.”

 

Derek’s decision to shed his skin and become something _other_ never surprised Stiles; Derek had been questioning his place in the magical world before he’d ever received his Hogwarts letter. He hadn’t minded listening to Derek bemoan the lengthy, arduous process—mandrake leaves, electrical storms and all sorts of impossibly unique tasks. What he _did_ mind was Derek’s new transformation skill came with more than additional body hair; it came with Erica, Boyd and Isaac, who, in Stiles’ loudly-voiced opinion, embodied the worst aspects of Ravenclaw House.

 

“You don’t even know them.” Derek had spit the words at Stiles’ feet in the Entrance Hall. Scores of voices, distorted and distant, filtered through the heavy doors of the Great Hall, a chaotic soundtrack to the dissolution of their friendship. “As if your Gryffindor _girlfriend_ is any better?” Derek jeered. “Or Scott McCall?”

 

Stiles saw red. “Scott’s more puppy than snake, and you know it! And for the last time, her name is Lydia and she’s _not_ my girlfriend!”

 

“Whatever.” Derek had run a thick-fingered hand through his hair, pulling at the roots in frustration, causing it to stick up in all directions. Stiles took grim satisfaction in the chaotic locks, so opposite from Derek’s usual polished exterior. “If you have a problem with my friends, than you have a problem with me.”

 

“Fine! If your obnoxious, revolting Ravenclaws are so important to you, go sprout a tail and piss on trees with them, and leave me and my friends the hell alone.” Stiles sneered, and uttered the words that would haunt him for almost two years. “That way I won’t have to see it.”

 

Derek sucked in a breath, turning hurt, wild eyes on Stiles’ stone-cold face. He’d clutched his Charms textbooks to his robe-covered chest. “So much for _forever_. You were full of shit, as usual.” He’d spun on his heels, and marched away.

 

Now, as everyone drifts out of the common room, Stiles is rooted to the spot, a terrifying stray thought freezing the blood in his veins; if they fail tonight, Stiles will never get the chance to see Derek in his wolf form. Lydia heads for the door Derek holds open, but pauses when she realizes Stiles isn’t following her.

 

“Stiles, what is it?” she asks, raking shrewd eyes over his immobile form.

 

Even half hidden by a mask, Stiles can tell two bushy eyebrows are raised in question above Derek’s green-gold eyes, his fingers grip the door so hard they turn bone-white. Derek’s face will always be a Marauder's Map to Stiles, spilling secrets, no matter how much time passes. Derek _thinks_ Stiles has second thoughts about helping him, but that isn’t the case. The brick wall Stiles erected around his heart to keep Derek at bay has been cracked and crumbling from the start, patched together with stubbornness and spite, and tonight, regret for all the time he’s wasted claws at the mortar.  

 

Stiles looks to Lydia, blinking fast, mouth gaping but no words spilling forth to express all the _what if’s_ bottle-necking in his throat. “I _know_ ,” she says, firm but gentle, and the rare softness in her voice dispels his panic, “but you’ll get the chance.”

 

Derek glances between them, mouth tight. His shoulders fall. “Come on, guys. We have a long night ahead of us.”

 

*****

 

They tiptoe through hidden corridors, avoiding detection from portraits and professors, and skirt along the outer walls of the castle, flying past Hagrid’s hut on fleet feet. It amazes him there isn’t a path worn permanently in the grass leading down the hill past the Whomping Willow. He and Derek traipsed this exact route countless times, courting adventure—and a fair share of trouble—over the years. They broach the shadowy tree line as sunset slips from the sky, where thick spring foliage swallows the last of the warm, dying rays. Stiles shivers, partly from the temperature drop under the leafy canopy, and partly from the ominous feeling of the Forbidden Forest settling into his bones. The reasons this place is off limits to students have never felt more consequential.

 

Boyd and Isaac lead the way down the dark path, conversing quietly, dead leaves and twigs snapping under their loafers. Derek and Lydia walk together, heads bent close, rehashing the plan yet again. The familiar scents of damp earth and Lydia’s perfume wafts toward Stiles on a cool, fragrant breeze. Glimmering eyes follow their progress from hollow tree trunks, as Stiles lags behind the group, with Erica keeping pace.

 

“I stand by what I said,” she declares, boldly.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, side-stepping a gnarled tree root. “And what was that, exactly? When you told me I looked like a wart-faced toad during the Yule ball?” Stiles smirks. “Or was it when I scored higher than you on all my O.W.L.’s, and you told me to eat slugs?”

 

Derek quickly glances back when Erica laughs, loud and carefree. _Be nice_ , he mouths. Stiles isn’t sure which of them he’s admonishing.

 

“Neither.” She playfully punches Stiles in the shoulder, with a bit more force than necessary. “In the common room tonight, when I said you were supposedly the best wizard Hogwarts had seen in ages. I still can’t believe someone so clever could be dumb enough to drop his best friend like a sack of potatoes.”

 

Stiles bristles, eyes grimly focused on a lone grey squirrel scampering up the bark of a tree, loudly announcing to the world that it’s late for bed. “I’d call it a ‘mutual dropping’.” He makes air quotes. “Derek didn’t like Scott and Lydia, and I didn’t like you three. Still don’t.” Stiles bites the inside of his lips. “It was better to part ways,” he says in a softer voice. “Not all childhood friendships last.”

 

A rude noise escapes from under Erica’s mask. “Well _that’s_ bullshit. Did Derek actually _say_ he hated Lydia or Scott? Did he ever utter those words?”

 

“Well no, but—”

 

“Because he didn’t. He doesn’t. He resented the time you were spending with them. He’s not like you, Stiles. Derek doesn’t make friends easily. People don’t flock to him like they do to you.” She appreciatively eyes Derek's pert backside. “Despite how good looking he is.”

 

“Don’t try to distract me with Derek’s perfect butt. We hate each other, and Boyd and Isaac don’t tolerate me either. There was as much bad blood on your end as there is on mine. You three think you’re better than me, better than everyone.”

 

She scoffs. “Don’t tell me you buy in to the rubbish about our house placements determining our personalities. If someone has shown me kindness, I return the favor. You’re not my favorite person at Hogwarts, I’ll admit, but that wasn’t always the case. In third year, I tried to be your partner in potions.”

 

“What?!” Stiles’ incredulous eyebrows can rival Derek’s. “You did not. I’d remember.”

 

“I thought you were smart and funny. I thought we could get top marks in class if we worked together. I certainly didn’t think I was better than you. You didn’t even _notice_ me. So I thought, why waste my time liking this guy if he only cares about himself?”

 

Stiles stops walking, turning to face her fully in the feeble light of green glowing insects and a waxing crescent moon. Overhead, branches bang against each other like drumsticks in the hands of a giant. “I don’t only care about myself.”

 

Erica pauses, contemptible smile full of sharp white teeth beneath her gold mask. “Oh, sorry. You, Lydia Martin and Scott McCall. Derek Hale didn’t make the cut.”

 

He sucks in a noseful of wild herbs and rotting wood. “That’s so unfair.”

 

She takes one step closer, a pine cone splintering under her foot, chin jutted high and feet planted wide. “When we all started to spend more time together, I asked Derek why he hung around with you; you were so self-involved. Do you want to know what he said?”

 

“Not really, but I’m guessing you’re going to tell me anyway.” All around them, the cacophony of the forest falls silent; no buzzing insects, no hooting owls or the flutter of unseen wings, no foraging of animals in the detritus. The eerie silence lends itself to Erica’s ominous admission.

 

“He told me, _Stiles is the most loyal friend in the world_.”

 

Stiles stares at Derek’s back, growing further away with each heartbeat. His fingers itch for his wand, for the orange and purple ropes of a _Carpe Retractum_ , something to force the distance between them to close. “It was a mistake.” The whispered confession loosens something in his chest. “I’ve missed him every day.”

 

“Hey guys!” Boyd pivots, squinting in the low light and yells, hands cupped around his mouth. “Hurry up! It’s right here.” He points to a trailing canopy of moss.

 

Erica pushes Stiles forward. “Maybe tell the guy? Before we all get trapped in the Faerie Realm and dance ourselves to death.”

 

They march on, but a few yards from the rest of the group Erica grabs Stiles’ shoulder, halting his progress. “And Stiles?”

 

“Yeah?” He doesn’t think he’s imagining the softening of the hard lines around her mouth when she looks at him. It’s minute, but a spark of hope ignites in his chest.

 

“Derek missed you too.”

 

*****

 

Lydia digs the invisibility cloak out of her satchel. “You don’t have to do this,” Stiles tells her, grabbing hold of her forearms and bending down slightly to peer into her eyes. They’ve been over the plan a hundred times, but he still needs her to know. “You could stay out here, go for help if we don’t return.”

 

She shakes her head, strawberry-blond tresses trailing along her shoulders. “Who else is going to save the day if you fuck this up?” She throws her arms around his shoulders and squeezes him tightly.

 

The cloak falls over her head, removing her from sight. “So, Stiles?”

 

“Yeah?” He answers the disembodied voice in front of him.

 

“Don’t fuck up.”

 

Isaac reaches out, pushes through a thick canopy of vines hanging from an old, tall oak tree, and Stiles shudders as he steps over the threshold of a world outside their own—a strange and wonderful twilight kingdom. A reverent hush falls over their entourage.

 

Stiles has never witnessed anything like it—and he’s grown up with magic. A silver forest stretches ahead of them, as far as the eye can see. When they’d been in the human world, the moon was almost new, a sliver of pale yellow light, but now a full moon leads them down a narrow footpath. Under the moonlight the pure silver leaves sparkle and dance like musical chimes. Stiles hears the sound of violins far in the distance, so faint he wonders if he’s imagining them. Stiles spins in circles, eyes darting from one gleaming branch to another.

 

A warm, fragrant breeze scented with jasmine fills the air when they draw clear of the silver trees, and come to a dazzling forest of gold. Thousands of gold leaves catch the light of the moon, turning the world to bright golden day instead of silver night. The music is clearer now, closer, and Stiles catches the sounds of many different instruments playing a beguiling tune.

 

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” Stiles says, fighting a euphoric smile.

 

Derek steps beside him. “Just wait.”

 

Finally, they cross into another forest, far more stunning than the others, where glittering diamonds cluster on every leaf. It’s as though all the stars in the heavens rained down to rest on the leaves.

 

Stiles can’t help himself; he laughs, overcome with delight. Every time a diamond catches the light the moon shatters hundreds of tiny rainbows over the entrancing world they’re traveling deeper and deeper into. Stiles stretches out his arms, watching them play on his skin.

 

He cups a few in his palm, holds them up for Derek to inspect, like they’re kids again, discovering magic together. “ _Look_.”

 

Derek never takes his eyes off Stiles’ face. “Beautiful,” he says.

 

Stiles drops his hands to his sides, sobering. “Derek, I owe you an a—”

 

“I need to tell you something,” Derek says at the same time.

 

They blink at each other. “You first,” Stiles says.

 

Derek reaches up and plucks a sprig of diamond off a low-hanging branch. “What if… I think I…”. He sighs, tossing the priceless jewels away. “When we came here, the first night, I felt like you do right now; overcome. I try my best, all the time, everyday, not to think about you, but when I saw this I…”

 

His rainbow-dappled mask turns toward Stiles. “I wished you could see it. I wished you could be here with me. I swear, I never said it out loud but… here you are, all the same. What if my wish brought you here? Put you and Lydia in danger? If something happens, and we can’t leave, I’ll never forgive myself.”

 

“Derek.” Stiles steps closer. “You didn’t bring me here. _I_ brought me here. And I should have been here”- he gestures between them-“all along.”

 

The music grows stronger, drowning out Stiles thundering heart, and all at once Derek and his pack turn toward the sound, the same unsettling hive mind behavior from earlier in the night.

 

One second, they’re alone, then Stiles blinks and a handsome man stands before him.

 

At first, all he can register is silky black hair, a strong jaw, gentle, piercing eyes a kaleidoscope of green-gold-blue, but the harder Stiles looks, the more his appearance changes. Every time he blinks, it’s like starting all over again. Stiles shakes his head, trying to clear it, as the man steps up to him and bows deeply, taking one of Stiles’ hands between his ice-cold fingers. “Ah, you’ve brought a guest tonight,” the King says, eyes playful but shrewd. He kisses the captured appendage with plush lips, and the feeling of a thousand tiny ants crawling beneath his skin swell toward the epicenter of contact.

 

“You must be Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I'm Jamie!](https://jmeelee.tumblr.com/) Thank you for reading. Chapter 3 will be added within a week or two, and I will also add a chapter with the three drabbles that inspired this story. 
> 
> This story borrows elements from _Harry Potter_ and _The Twelve Dancing Princesses_ by The Brother's Grimm. I borrowed, and edited, the descriptions of the forests from the 1998 adaption by Marianna Mayer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Allow me to introduce myself,” the faerie says from the bow of the vessel. Stiles grips the sides of the boat for dear life; the King placidly stands, looking for all the world like a rogue pirate captain, dark and vivacious in a white linen shirt and crimson leather waistcoat, tight black breeches tucked into dark knee-high boots. He conjures a shiny red apple and takes a bite, bright white teeth piercing the thin skin. The boat rocks again, and Stiles prays it’s caused by Lydia climbing aboard, undetected under her invisibility cloak, and not by his own involuntary shiver. Another snap of his pale finger, and the boat glides into the placid water. He tosses the half-eaten fruit into the lake, wipes glistening juice from his chin. “I am Rowen, King of the Fae of the Seelie Court. And tonight, Stiles Stilinski, let us discover how helpful we will be to each other.”

War rages between Stiles’ brain and eyes as he gazes at the King of the Fae, bent low over Stiles’ ensnared limb.  The need for narrative and sequence battle fluid imagery and supposition, leaving the inside of Stiles’ head a bruised and bloody mess.

 

“Scamper, pups.” The King leers at him through long black lashes and dismisses Derek’s pack without a glance. “I’ll entertain Stiles while you’re otherwise engaged.”

 

Derek slides in front of Stiles, snarling out a warning.  “Let go of him.” The little Stiles can see of Derek’s expression is martyred and mutinous.

 

“No need to be so dramatic, Derek,” the King condescends. “He’s perfectly safe with me; I don’t bite.” A quick flash of sharp teeth claims otherwise. “I only want to speak with him.  Now, go, all of you.” His voice hardens, simpering smile dropping away. “Your dance partners await.”

 

Isaac, Erica and Boyd turn away at the command, slowly navigating down a grassy hill toward a wide, serene lake, where five long wooden boats bob on the shoreline.  At the helm of four of the ships stand eldritch creatures holding candle-lit lanterns. The features of these faeries are easier to decipher—silky white-blonde hair, subtly pointed ears, large, black sclera eyes—though Stiles still feels like he glances down the far end of a dimly lit tunnel.

 

“It’s okay, Derek.” Stiles yanks his hand from the King’s grip, wiping the appendage on the side of his trousers to abolish the strange crawling sensation. Derek lingers, green eyes darting between Stiles and the King. Stiles prays Derek is still fluent in the crude, made-up language of their youth, where eyebrow waggles, face contortions and primordial hand gestures replaced verbal communication.  He blinks fast, eyes wide, pouring his heart into his next words, willing them—and all those he can’t say aloud—into reality. “Go dance. We’ll all go home soon.”

 

Derek must still understand the Troll-like language they perfected in treehouses and under canopied couch cushions, because he blinks twice, nods once, and mercifully walks away without further argument.

 

A preternatural stillness descends in his absence; no natural nightlife emanating from the jeweled forest, no waves lapping at the sandy shore, not even a whisper of air from the body lingering at Stiles’ side, only a swelling orchestral symphony.

 

Stiles swivels, squints at the handsome human-like face, a misty landscape through which he occasionally glimpses isolated supernatural features. His eyes wander over them, lost and willful; he can’t control their path, or make any sense of the terrain.  “You’ve kidnapped my friends, and I want them back,” he states, without preamble.

 

The King smiles, convivial. “Don’t be silly, boy.  They’re not your friends. Until a few hours ago, you detested three of them.”

 

Stiles sucks in an audible breath at the telepathic pronouncement. “Detest is too strong a word.  Try thread-bare dislike.”

 

The King's bitch-face rivals Derek’s. “I see your truth, Stiles Stilinski, and jealousy is a hateful bedfellow if allowed to linger too long.  Derek and his pack of wolves are free to return to your little castle each morning. I haven’t stolen anyone.” _Little castle_ might as well be _dirty_ _hovel_ as it leaks from the King’s mouth, tone ripe with reason, and Stiles thinks one bite of any fruit this man offers, no matter how sweet, will poison him.

 

Stiles marches closer, self-preservation drowning under the smell of the off-brand lilac fabric softener his father never stopped purchasing after his mother died. Stiles feels the pilled sheets of his childhood bed, the worn-smooth spots he’d worry with his fingertips to keep anxiety attacks at bay, sirens trying to lure him into a sea of complacency. He won’t be pulled under.  “You afixed masks to their faces and hijacked their ability to shift. You’re holding their power for ransom unless Derek answers some useless riddle. You kidnapped their souls,” Stiles waves a vague hand around in front of the King, “or something.”

 

“Our riddles are anything but asinine, Stiles. I am only trying to help.” He places a large hand on the small of Stiles’ back, steering Stiles toward the forlorn ship left on the shore. “We are merely jokesters, having a bit of sport. They will return to normal once the riddle is solved. No harm, no foul.”

 

“I’d call cursing four wizards pretty _foul_.” He presses back into the shepherding hand, thankfully void of the cold, spider-like feeling when not against bare skin, resisting the forward momentum the King imposes. Derek and the rest are tiny dots of lantern light on the dark horizon, almost to the distant shore.

 

“There would be no wizards left to curse, no beautiful faces to wear masks, if your friends had come across my brothers and sisters in the Unseelie court, instead of me.” He snaps long, aristocratic fingers in front of Stiles’ nose, and with a feeling not-unlike Apparating, Stiles lands ass-first in the gondola at the bottom of the grassy knoll, bouncing so hard he nearly capsizes.

 

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the faerie says from the bow of the vessel. Stiles grips the sides of the boat for dear life; the King placidly stands, looking for all the world like a rogue pirate captain, dark and vivacious in a white linen shirt and crimson leather waistcoat, tight black breeches tucked into dark knee-high boots. He conjures a shiny red apple and takes a bite, bright white teeth piercing the thin skin. The boat rocks again, and Stiles prays it’s caused by Lydia climbing aboard, undetected under her invisibility cloak, and not by his own involuntary shiver. Another snap of his pale finger, and the boat glides into the placid water. He tosses the half-eaten fruit into the lake, wipes glistening juice from his chin.  “I am Rowen, King of the Fae of the Seelie Court. And tonight, Stiles Stilinski, let us discover how helpful we will be to each other.”

 

*****

 

Stiles takes his sweet time stepping onto the dark shore, ignoring the King’s outstretched hand and swaying their boat side to side more than necessary, to cover Lydia’s departure.  His foot no more touches dry land when the world rearranges, sending him sprawling to his knees and revealing a glorious alabaster palace, walls veiled in trailing green ivy. Soft, inviting light emanates from each beveled glass window.  They’re on the edge of a lush courtyard, at the end of a river stone path leading to a sweeping staircase.

 

King Rowen smirks down at Stiles.  “I’d offer to help you up, but I’m sure you’d refuse.” He glides over the rocks, throwing a careless, “Hurry up, Stiles,” over his shoulder.

 

On and on the music plays—violins, guitars, cello, drums—each song more inviting than the last, burrowing into the marrow in Stiles’ bones, making him want to _move_.  The marble staircase ascends into a ballroom, floor-to-ceiling columns lining a shiny herringbone dancefloor. An enormous chandelier, arms laden with thousands of light-refracting crystals, hangs from a cathedral ceiling adorned with a silver-flower mural, casting warm light over fifty couples. Mammoth mirrors in gold-gilded frames line one wall, and tall French windows the other, multiplying the space; a seemingly endless world of moonlit dancers.

 

And on the glistening dance floor glides Derek and his pack, leading, or being led by, beautiful Fae partners.

It happened to Stiles at the tail-end of fourth year, one mundane weekday morning as he scribbled in his dream journal for divination, simultaneously shoveling in his breakfast, trying to fill three back entries with made-up rubbish.  Derek had offered an idea to write about—damned if he can remember what it was. He’d quickly glanced over the top of his goblet of pumpkin juice and, disconcerted, looked into the breathtaking face of a stranger. It was absurd; Derek was the exact same boy Stiles had seen everyday since childhood, the person who inspired the simple, buzzing warmth of recognition in Stiles’ soul.  But in one throw-away moment, amidst the humdrum of the breakfast rush, he saw someone _new_ , someone who inspired _complicated_ feelings—clammy palms, sweat under his arms, the anxious beating of his heart.

The same thing happens now, as Stiles stares, dumbfounded.  Despite obscene good looks and an impressive intellect, Derek always moves into the background, happy to let others take center stage.  But out on the dance floor his personality, his _sensuality_ , bursts into technicolor life.  He’s all smooth movements, the lethal grace of a powerful predator. A correction of posture, the lift of his abdomen and chest, and he’s someone to _watch_ , someone to _follow_.

Stiles always wanted to follow Derek to the ends of the Earth. Now it seems, he truly has.

A foxtrot ends, and a tango begins, Derek and the rest a blur of tangled arms, legs and torsos.  “How did they learn all these steps so fast?” Stiles wonders aloud.

Rowen leans close, mock-whispering against his ear. “It’s magic.”

Stiles shudders at the contact _. Rude_. Faeries are gigantic assholes.

A smug grin filled with too many teeth answers the thought. “Follow me.  We will watch the revelry in comfort.” He takes Stiles’ arm, drapes it over his own, and leads him along the side of the dance floor, where upholstered banquettes line the wall; some Fae are seated, talking merrily and sipping from pewter goblets. They stare at Stiles like he’s a monkey in a zoo; they’re curious, enthralled, mistrustful. They probably think he’ll throw shit at them.

 

Granted, if Stiles had some readily available, he probably would.

 

An intricate wrought-iron railing leads up a dais to two carved oak thrones adorned with thick, red velvet cushions. Rowen deposits Stiles on one of the thrones, and once seated, the music ebbs enough for Stiles to hear the rustle of satin and organza. The King sprawls in the chair next to him, lazing, too-long fingers tapping out the beat of the music on the wooden armrest, quietly observing the synchronous couples orbiting the ballroom.

 

“Your home and your people are...lovely,” Stiles grants him. “I don’t understand what you want with Derek and his friends, when you have all this.”

 

The King shifts, eyes flitting from dancer to dancer.  “Our worlds do not differ as much as you’d like to imagine.  Here there are predators, and there are prey. It’s all _biological_.  Do they teach you those things in your school for wizards?”

 

“Of course.  But we’re also taught it’s cruel to toy with your food.  So let us go.”

 

“You imagine we’re the predators in this fairytale?  What a quaint, childish notion.”

 

The wheels in Stiles’ head turn. “The Unseelie Court.  They’re the predators. How does cursing four wizards strengthen you against them?”

 

“There hasn’t been a war between our courts in a thousand years, but war is like the sun, the moon; it does not stay hidden for long.  The Unseelie treat war like a game, like the wizard’s chess you lot are so fond of. You must know, the king is the weakest player on the board. When war returns, as it always does, I will have need of clever men and women to swell my ranks.  Those with magic I can rip apart, reform. With one drink of my blood, I can turn a wizard into a Fae, make them more powerful than they could dare dream.” He slices his thumb across the sharp wooden edge of his throne, holds the wound just shy of Stiles’ lips. “Your magic whispers, Stiles.  Join me; I can make it _scream_.”

 

“I won’t be a pawn in a faerie war.”

The King waves away Stiles’ dismissal, cut healing over before his eyes.  “I have a castle full of those. More bishops and rooks than I know what to do with.  What I need are knights, what I need is a Queen.” He glances at an unoccupied table laden with brightly-colored tropical fruits and a large crystal punch bowl. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find one of those?  I am partial to red-heads.”

“Nope,” Stiles replies, tone even.  “No idea. Never seen one of those in my life.”

 

The King laughs, drawing Derek’s attention.  Stiles and Derek lock eyes. The blue-white light of the moon and the bronze of the chandelier light bathes him in Ravenclaw colors. He’s so damn beautiful, even with the wolf mask.

 

“So you lured Derek, Isaac, Erica and Boyd here to make them soldiers?”

 

“Lured?  My dear boy, they wandered here of their own accord. It wasn’t until I touched Derek’s hand and saw a vision of _you_ that I decided to play with them.” Rowen settles back in his chair with exaggerated casualness. “You could be the perfect jewel in my crown.”

 

Stiles shakes his head, refusing to believe he’s at fault for all this madness or got Derek cursed.  “No,” he says, emphatically. “The _smells_ and the weird thing you do, where we can’t see you clearly if we look directly at you, it bewitched Derek. Those things brought him here against his will.  And what are we seeing ? Don’t tell me it’s our heart’s desire, because Boyd over there?” Stiles points. “He might be gruff and threatening, but he isn’t into little girls.”

 

The King boops Stiles on the nose before Stiles can think to be affronted by the childish gesture.  “How plebeian of you. I forget, sometimes, how simple humans can be. There’s a word for it in our language: _cenedril_ .”  The vowels and consonants roll off his tongue like liquid gold.  “You could say you’re seeing the…” he trails off, eyes focused on the painted ceiling. “You see the reflection of the defining moment of your heart; not its desire, but the _truth_.  You see that which has shaped the core of you.”

 

Derek in the center of the dance floor, leading his partner in a tight square, elbows tearing through the air as he dips her, her slim thigh sandwiched between his thick legs.  It ignites a fire in Stiles gut— _he_ wants to be in Derek’s arms, feel their bodies move against each other, Derek’s thumb pressing into each vertebrae of Stiles’ spine. He’s wanted Derek, in one way or another, since he first laid eyes on him when they were children.  It’s grown, matured, as they have, and now it’s too much, too dangerous, a potential thunderclap waiting to burst forth, flatten him.

 

 _Derek_ is Stiles’ truth.  But what did Derek see?

 

“I meant what I said in the boat; I want us to help each other. In the spirit of cooperation, I promise you, it was not I who lured him here, but for a broken heart in need of comfort, _cenedril_ can be too strong to resist.”

 

A split second of silence as the songs change, and Stiles swears his soul cracks open at the words, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Derek’s heart is broken? I didn’t know someone had… I didn’t know he’d fallen in love.”     

 

The King’s fingers encircle his wrist, and Stiles doesn’t have the energy to shudder anymore.  “I told you, Stiles, I want us to be helpful to each other, but you refuse to listen. I will tell you my riddle, as I told it to Derek.  If you answer correctly, I’ll free you, and you may take with you whomever you desire. Answer wrong, and I get to keep you.” There’s an edge to the words, a hint of desperation seeping through the smugness.  Stiles recognizes the wild, eager glint in the King Rowen’s eyes. The same one sparkles in his own right before he masters a spell. Victory, the King thinks, is imminent.

 

Stiles rolls the words over in his mind, searching for fissures and hidden dangers underneath. “I’ll agree, on one condition.  If I answer incorrectly, and I have to stay, you still let Derek and his friends go.”

“You are loyal and brave, Stiles.  Admirable qualities I reward in my people. I accept your terms, and as a gesture of good will, I’ll allow you to speak now with anyone you wish.”  He caresses Stiles’ cheek. “Your muggle father, perhaps? I could make a bridge between our worlds, and you could say goodbye to the Sheriff now, before it’s too late.”

The thought almost undoes him, but if he chooses to tell his father goodbye, to acknowledge it could be their last conversation, he’s already lost.

 

“Thank you,” Stiles says, standing from his seat.  “That’s a generous offer. But the person I want to talk with is already here.”

 

********

A blues-soaked mid-tempo swells as Stiles steps off the dais. Dancers part for him like the sea on his voyage across the floor, moving at full sail until he’s at Derek’s side. “Beat it, Legolas. He’s mine.” The faerie, wearing a low-cut red chiffon dress, scoffs as she relinquishes Derek’s arms and drifts away to find another partner.  Stiles docks in the vacated space.

 

Derek’s arms feel like coming home, not too hard, not too soft. Where Stiles belongs.

 

Isaac glides past, twirling his partner into a sweetheart spin. “Legolas is an Elf, Stiles.  I’m like, ninety-three percent sure your statement was racist.”

 

Stiles shoos him away.

 

“Are you okay?” Derek frisks him, searching for unseen injuries. The only wound is his heart, but Stiles masterfully keeps it concealed.  “Why did he let you go?”

 

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, dude.  I’m fine.” He removes Derek’s wandering hands from hips, nudges one hand around his back, right below his shoulder blade, and places Derek’s left hand in his right. “We came to an agreement; he’s letting me attempt solving the riddle.  Everything is going according to plan.” Stiles purposely leaves out the stipulation about staying in the Faerie Realm forever if he fails.

 

Stiles should be wearing the mask, because Derek too-easily reads his face like his favorite Hogwarts textbook.  “What agreement did you come to, exactly? Someone who _thinks_ he’s wise once told me not to bargain with Fae; there’s always a catch.”

 

Stiles throws his free arm around Derek’s graceful neck, starts to sway with the gently rising crescendoing.  He can feel the ins and outs of Derek’s breathing as their chests press together, a little too close to be considered proper form. “The catch is we only have a little time to talk before he tells me the riddle.” Stiles’ sense of urgency grows with the volume of the guitars. “And I don’t want to waste anymore time, Derek. So just…dance with me.”

 

They cover the floor in long strides, perfectly in time with the music. They are one, moving through light and air.

   

“When we get home,” Derek says after a few spins around the dance floor, “I want us to be friends again.” Derek’s voice pleads. “I’ll be accepting of your relationships with Lydia and Scott, but I need you to try to get along with Isaac, Erica and Boyd.”

 

Stiles is willing to admit he’s painted Derek’s friends—and all Ravenclaws, really—with the same brush; an assorted lot with one common denominator—a triumphal quality, competitors in a contest in which Stiles never formally entered, but willing to steal his spoils all the same.  If he can’t solve the riddle, the point will be moot, but there’s enough of Derek’s friendship to go around, and if it means having Derek in his life again, Stiles will learn to share.

 

“Yeah, I can do that.” Derek sighs in relief.  Grinning, he leads Stiles into a series of quick whirls, and Stiles can’t tell what makes him dizzier, the spinning or Derek’s handsome mouth under the mask, curved like an archer’s bow.

 

Derek’s hand wanders to the small of Stiles’ back, dipping dangerously low. They move together like clockwork to the pulse of the music, thighs brushing. “So, I found out what we’re all seeing when we try to look too closely at these pointy-eared bastards,” Stiles says, breathless, staunchly ignoring the languid heat pooling in his groin at their intimate contact.

 

“Definitely racist,” Isaac calls from a few feet away.

 

“Well, it’s not what we desire,” Derek says, ignoring Isaac, “because Erica’s pretty kinky, but she doesn't have a medical fetish, and Boyd’s not a pedophile.”

 

“Right?!” Stiles smacks Derek in the upper arm.  “That’s exactly what I said!”

 

“I’m sure they’ll be eternally grateful for your enthusiastic defense of their moral fiber,” Derek deadpans.

 

“Wow.”  Stiles laughs.  “You are _such_ a nerd.”

 

Derek sobers, rotating them away from the dais.  “So, what did he tell you?”

 

“It’s a mirror image of the moment dictating who we are.”

 

Derek frowns, mulling over the information.  “You know,” Stiles continues, using all his inner strength to keep his voice even, “at first I thought he was lying.  If I smacked a label over the most influential thing in my life, I would have said my mother.” Derek pulls Stiles infinitesimally closer, an unconscious gesture of comfort.  “My father tried his best to prepare me for the wizarding world after she died, but he’s a muggle. There was only so much he could do. It’s what makes me so focused, so determined; magic makes me feel closer to her.”  Emotions he valiantly tries to extinguish smolder in Stiles’ belly, and he reaches deep down for a blanket of humor to smother the fire. “Is it creepy to admit I wish it _was_ her face superimposed on his ugly mug?  It would have been nice to see her again.”

 

Derek stares into his soul.  “No. It wouldn’t have been creepy at all.”  They’re barely dancing now. “Who _did_ you see?”  The words are spoken so quietly Stiles hardly hears them over the music.

 

For the past few years Stiles’ feelings have been monsters, lurking in the dark corners of his heart, waiting for signs of weakness—the flash of white bunny teeth in a smile directed at others, a throaty laugh inspired by someone else—to strike. They bombard him now, rushing up his throat, trampling down his stomach, released from their cages by Derek’s affection, focused solely on Stiles’ willpower like concentrated fire.

 

He can feel the clock ticking, counting down their time together.   _Say it_ , the monsters roar.   _Tell him_.

 

Stiles focuses on a spot over Derek’s left shoulder, where Erica and her Fae partner gracefully waltz.  “It made sense, after I thought about it, why it wouldn’t be my mother. Every single good memory I have about magic is all tangled up with _you_.  You’ve been there for all of it; that time out in the meadow when we were seven, and I made all the flowers bloom, and the winter before first year when you accidentally turned your sister’s hair fuschia because she said Gilderoy Lockhart was smarter than you. Or the sunny morning our Hogwarts letters came, and your mom apparated us to Diagon Alley to buy owls at Eeylops Owl Emporium.”

 

A hoarse laugh escapes Derek’s chest. “The shopkeeper told us they were brothers, and yours turned out to be female.”

 

“No one checks that kind of thing in the middle of a shop, Derek!”  Stiles throws up his hands, letting them both land on top of Derek’s broad shoulders.  He slides them back, laces them behind Derek’s neck. “I had no idea what I was supposed to look for!”

 

Derek lowers his head, shit- eating grin plastered across his mouth. “Probably still don’t.”  

 

“Wanna bet?” Stiles tips up his chin, their faces inches apart. If Stiles shifts onto the balls of his feet they could ki—   

 

“We’re all going to puke if we have to witness anymore of your piss-poor flirting, guys,” Boyd complains as he leads his partner past.  The words are a bucket of ice water thrown over the embers burning between them.

 

Derek backs away, putting distance between their bodies.  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He straightens his spine, moving back into a formal dance hold.  “I know how you feel about Lydia and I—.”

 

“Wait,” Stiles proclaims, fingers digging into Derek’s shoulders for ballast, reeling him back in.  “Lydia? She smart and beautiful but I don’t want her, not like that.”

 

Derek’s eyebrows fuse in the middle.  “Stiles, you waxed poetic about her for four years straight.”

 

 _Oh, shit_ .  He flips a few mental puzzle pieces on their sides and they lock into place.  “When you said _relationship_ earlier, did you mean _relationship_?”  There’s a clear distinction between the two words when Stiles say them, one Derek did not make at the start of their conversation.

 

“Yes, that’s why I said _relationship_ .” It’s the latter one, and _no_ .  Just... _no_.

 

“Lydia and I are not… we don’t… there are no _relations-_ ” he makes air quotes with his fingers- “of any kind.  We’re friends; she wouldn’t come near me with a ten-foot broomstick.”

 

Derek’s hand makes a tight fist at Stiles’ back, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight.  “Well that’s dumb, because you’re amazing.”

 

“And what about you, huh? The King told me your heart was broken.  I didn’t know…” Stiles loses all limb function, hands flopping around Derek’s head like stunned birds. “We haven’t spoken since we were fifteen so of course you’d find someone who...I mean _look_ at you!” The flittering hands attempt to showcase Derek’s handsome form, including the slack mouth and wide eyes behind his mask.  “A person would have to be blind not to notice. And _hey_ !  What’s wrong with her, anyway?!” A rogue hand smacks Derek’s shoulder.  “How dare she break—oh or, it could be a he, of course.” The hands go back to fluttering.  “Sorry. We always had that in common.” A hysterical, bubbling laugh. “You know how it is. Sometimes we’re Chasers, sometimes we’re Keepers.” Stiles winks. _Merlin’s beard! What is happening to him?_

 

“That doesn’t”-Derek shakes his head-“that makes no sense.  Neither of us plays Quidditch.”

 

“It’s a euphemism, Derek!  Trust me, it makes perfect sense!” Derek looks dubious.  “Sometimes you play for the Quiberon Quafflepunchers and sometimes you play for the Stonewall Stormers. We _play for both teams_.”

 

“Stiles, that is the absolute worst analogy I’ve ever—”

 

“I hate to interrupt this fascinating display of Wizarding courtship,” King Rowen slides off his throne, music fading so fast Stiles’ ears ring, “but dawn will break soon, and once again it’s time for our riddle.” He holds a silver cup, and the bottom drops out of Stiles’ stomach.

“I couldn’t take much more of that,” Erica mutters loudly, coming to halt and detangling herself from her partner.  

 

“Dancing?” Isaac asks.

 

“No.”  Erica points to Stiles and Derek.  “ _Them_.”

 

“Don’t worry, Derek,” Stiles rushes to say. “Trust me; you’re going home.”

 

“ _We’re_ going home,” Derek replies.  

 

Stiles bites his lips, prays Derek is right.  He turns to the King. “Okay. I’m ready. Lay it on me.” Everyone inches closer to their little group, excited whispers passing back and forth like Knuts at the market.  Derek stands on Stiles’s left, inches away from Isaac. Boyd lingers on Stiles right, next to Erica. There’s a tickle on the back of Stiles’ hand: _Lydia_.  She’s here, ready to grab them all if this goes to hell. They’re in this together, for better or worse.  The King clears his throat, and Stiles closes his eyes.

 

_Craved by heroes and cowards alike,_

_without sight or bias I will strike._

_I am the cause of Troy's destruction,_

_some fear without me, they cannot function._

_Tender, tragic, wonderful and deep-_

_A weapon that makes grown men weep._

_There are some who say I am blind,_

_both gift and curse to all mankind._

_Harbinger of maladies and resentment,_

_purveyor of bliss and contentment._

_Said aloud or written in quill_

_I have powers to save, powers to kill._

_What am I?_

 

In the following silence, Stiles finds fifty pairs of eyes watching him, waiting.   _Oh no oh no oh no_. The words are Cornish pixies in his head, bouncing around wrecking havoc. Isaac’s mouth twists into a grimace below his mask, and Boyd hugs Erica close.  She stares at Stiles, face imploring. He’s going to let them all down.

 

Panic grips his throat.  He’ll never be able to leave here, tell Derek how he feels. The King raises the silver goblet toward Stiles, thick red blood sloshes up the sides.  He doesn’t have a gold hope of winning. One sip and he’ll be trapped here forever, but at least Derek and the rest will be free. “I… I don’t—“

 

“Do you remember our Sorting ceremony?” Derek asks, apropos of nothing.

 

_Craved by heroes and cowards alike,_

_without sight or bias I will strike_

 

Stiles appreciates Derek’s willingness to take a walk down memory lane, and speak to him at all, but Stiles desperately needs to _think_.  “Uh, vividly,” he splutters. “You took so freaking long the whole school thought you were going to be a hatstall, but now isn’t the time to— ”

 

“I argued with the hat.”

 

Stiles crosses his arms.  “Why am I not surprised?”

 

_I am the cause of Troy's destruction,_

_some fear without me, they cannot function._

 

Derek shakes his head.  “It told me Ravenclaw, but you’d already been sorted into Slytherin.  I didn’t want us to be in different houses; I worried if we were, we’d stop being friends.”

 

_Tender, tragic, wonderful and deep-_

_A weapon that makes grown men weep._

_There are some who say I am blind,_

_both gift and curse to all mankind._

 

Panic gnaws at Stiles’ heart.  “It wasn’t house placements tearing us apart, Derek. It was my  jealousy.”

 

_Harbinger of maladies and resentment,_

_purveyor of bliss and contentment._

_Said aloud or written in quill_

_I have powers to save, powers to kill._

 

“It was _both_ of us, Stiles.  But I begged to be placed in Slytherin, too.  Ravenclaw seemed like a death sentence to our friendship. But the hat insisted; it said in Ravenclaw I’d grow witty, outspoken, determined.” He takes Stiles’ hand.  “ _Smart_ .  I’d become who I was meant to be, and you’d love me for it.”  Stiles leans in, holding his breath. “You’re still the most loyal person I know, and the most clever; I appreciate your help, your willingness to sacrifice yourself for me and my friends, but _I_ got us all into this mess, and I’m meant to get us out of it. Sometimes it takes me awhile to puzzle things out, but I promise, I _do_ learn.”  He leans forward, brushes his lips against Stiles, and winks as he backs away. “You’re what defines me.”

 

_What am I?_

 

Derek taps an index finger to the corner of his right eye, places a palm flat over his own beating heart, then points to Stiles.  It’s an immature gesture, perfected in Stiles’ old bedroom under lilac-scented sheets, away from prying adult eyes, but no less meaningful than when they were children.  It predates their magic, more powerful than any spell they’ve ever mastered.

 

 _Forever_ , Stiles mouths back.

 

Derek squares his shoulders, faces the King, and knocks the goblet to the floor.  

 

“The answer to your riddle is _love_.”

*****

Derek reaches his hands up, eyes wet, and pulls away his wolf mask, and three others clatter to the wood floor. Erica lets out a sob, and the four animagi gather each other in a tight hug.

 

The King snaps his fingers, vanishing the spilled blood on the floor, and bows to Derek.  “Congratulations, Derek. See what can happen when you follow the truth of your heart? You and your friends are free to leave. Including that one.”  He points to an empty space behind Stiles, and Lydia whips off her invisibility cloak.

 

“Behold, Stiles,” the King gestures magnanimously at Lydia. “A red-head.”

 

“For someone who claims to be the good guy, you’re kind of an asshole.”

 

“Takes one to know one.”

 

“Is everyone ready?” Lydia asks, all business.  “I’d rather not end up a Faerie Queen today.” She pulls the portkey—an all-too-familiar wolf plushie—from her bottomless bag.

 

Isaac laughs.  “Where did you get that?”

 

Lydia smirks.  “Stiles’ bed. He bought it for Derek when he started the Amigus process, but they broke up and he never gave it to him.”

 

“We didn’t break-up!” Derek and Stiles shout together.

 

“You created an unauthorized portkey?” Erica asks, impressed.

 

Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Learn to live a little, Ravenclaws.”

 

Derek reaches, fingers outstretched toward Stiles.  “Let’s go home.”

But the King steps between them.  “The Unseelie court would not let you go so easily, Stiles.  But as I told you, I only wanted us to be helpful to each other. Do not forget, had you not come to my home, you both would still be denying the truth inside your hearts.” He places a hand against Stiles’ chest, and melancholy memories of his time without Derek pile on top of each other: staring forlornly at Derek’s back across the Great Hall, Derek walking past Stiles’ compartment on the Hogwarts Express, chin held high, avoiding each other at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters as their owls hooted to each other in greeting.  

“Stop this,” Stiles begs.

The King does not remove his hand, but the crawling sensation changes, ripples out instead of in, like waves, planting a vision in his mind of an older Stiles, sinewy arms inked with magical tattoos, holding aloft a flaming sword. A large black wolf stands at his side.  “Perhaps peace will reign here forever, but if not, I hope you will remember how helpful I have been to you, and you will return the favor.”

He pulls back his hand and the vision clears.  “Brothers and sisters!” The King claps his hands.  “Our dancing is done for the night. Let us bid farewell to our guests.”  The Fae bow low _en masse._ “Until we meet again, Stiles Stilinski. Be well.”  

“Come on, Stiles,” Lydia motions him forward.  “On my count. Three, Two, One…”

It’s never a pleasant feeling, but when Stiles hits the floor of the forbidden forest outside the non-apparition zone, his nausea gets buried under a layer of giddy laughter. They did it.  They’re home.

Light filters, hazy and pink, through gauzy spring leaves. “My feet are on fire.” Erica rips off her worn-out dancing shoes and throws them into the woods with a joyous whoop. “Race you to the castle,” she grins at Isaac and Boyd, and they roll to their feet, shift into their animal forms faster than Stiles’ eyes can decipher, claws, fur and lithe, lethal muscle a blur as they dash toward Hogwarts, their home for only a handful of remaining weeks.

“Go with them,” Stiles chides Derek.  “Shift. _Run_. I know you want to.”

“I’d rather be with you.” Derek reaches between them, squeezes his hand.

Stiles scoffs.  “Buddy, I’m here. _Forever_.”  

A blink, and the biggest black wolf stands before Stiles, yipping playfully, nudging the hand he held moments ago.  Stiles runs his fingers through the silky midnight hairs, over Derek’s sleek back and along his bushy tail. “I lied back then,” he admits, “when I said I didn’t want to see this.  I’m so thankful I’m seeing you now.” Derek takes Stiles’ shirt between his fangs and tugs until Stiles squats down in front of him, throwing his arms around the wolf’s neck.

“I’ll meet you up there, Derek,” Stiles whispers into a warm silk ear; an answer, a promise.   

Derek bounds ahead, stopping once to look back, a beautiful, romantic figure against a striated orange sky.  Stiles give a little wave. Derek throws back his head and howls; an affirmation of their life, of victory, of existence.  

“What did the King show you?” Lydia asks, once Derek gallops out of ear shot. She slips her satchel over her shoulder. “A vision of the future?  A prophecy? An adventure?”

“I’m not entirely sure.  All three, maybe?” Stiles gathers the wolves hastily discarded clothes.  “He’s playing the long game but...Derek was there with me.”

They break though the treeline, find Derek and his pack wrestling on the dewy grass. Lydia rolls her hazel eyes. “So, _one more here we go again_?”

“You know,” Stiles admits, imagining all the possibilities those six words could entail, “that actually sounds like fun.”

 

**THE END (for now...)**

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was made far better by Dee, who patiently read each part, offered expert advice, and talked me off the ledge. Thank you <3 I am super lucky to have you as a friend. 
> 
> _Cenedril_ is Noldorin- one of Tolkin’s Elvish dialects, and translates to looking-glass (mirror).
> 
> The idea of a riddle and (spoiler alert!) the answer being love, was inspired by _A Court of Thorns and Roses_ by Sarah J. Maas. 
> 
> This is the final chapter- Chapter 4 contains the drabbles that inspired this universe, 2 taking place before this story, and 1 taking place after. 
> 
> Finally- thank you for reading! I'm Jamie.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 Drabbles inspired by the blog SterekDrabbles on tumblr, which were the basis for this universe. 2 of the drabbles take place before One More Here We Go Again, and 1 takes place after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional chapter containing the drabbles inspiring this HP universe.

**Part 1: Straight, Letter, Breakfast** (7/11/2018)

 

A snowy owl swoops in through the kitchen window, dropping his acceptance letter into the sausage grease on his breakfast plate. Stiles lets loose a loud whoop, throws a treat to the bird, and heads straight to Derek’s house at a full sprint.   

 

Derek throws open his front door before Stiles can knock.  He’s frowning, eyebrows drawn, even though Stiles clearly sees Derek’s name in green ink on his own parchment. 

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Derek grabs his hand.  “What if we’re sorted into different houses?”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles says.  “It’s you and me. Forever.” He squeezes Derek’s hand.  Derek squeezes back.

 

 

 

 

**Part 2:**   **Sort, Kind, Class** (4/1/2019)

The Sorting Hat belted out, “ _ Slytherin _ !” before it even touched Stiles’ head. Laura had told him if you wish hard enough, the hat might listen, so Derek begged for the same placement inside his mind.  

“You don’t belong there,” the musty old hat told him, firm but kind. “Destined for top marks in your classes, witty and outspoken. I know where you’ll cultivate those traits, and he’ll love you all the more for it.”

Stiles met him on the staircase after the ceremony. “Ravenclaw,”  Derek lamented, holding up his new tie.

“Don’t be sad.”  Stiles smiled. “I think blue’s pretty.”

 

 

 

**Part 3: One More Here We Go Again**

 

 

 

**Part 4: Lake, Ground, Walk** (7/13/2018)

 

“Hard to believe seven years have gone by,” Derek remarks, adjusting his blue tie as they file downhill toward the Great Lake.  

 

“Faster than a Slytherin Seeker on a Nimbus 2018,” Stiles jokes, bumping their shoulders together as they walk to the boats that carried them to Hogwarts all those years ago.  Someone spelled them larger for their final journey; they aren’t children anymore.

 

Derek grabs his hand, and now, like every time before, the ground shifts beneath Stiles’ feet and his heart rabbits in his chest.  “It’s still you and me,” Derek whispers, lacing their fingers.

 

Stiles replies, “Forever.”      

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song, Stay a Little Longer by Brothers Osborne, but has nothing to do with the story (I just liked it LOl).
> 
> A huge thank you to Novemberhush, who makes this fic better <3


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